Fading
by Starwind77
Summary: Alternative ending to Whac a Mole. House stops in the end to have a few words with Wilson. Further lines are drawn. Things start to crack.


**Title:** Fading  
**Rating:** PG  
**Pairing:** House/Wilson friendship break-up  
**Description:** Alternative ending to _Whac-a-Mole_. House stops and has a few words with Wilson in the end, amidst the rain-swept streets. Some further lines are drawn. Things start to crack.  
**Author's Note:** Wrote this not long after the episode aired, in fact, but then got slammed by a torrent of classwork and really didn't have time to finish writing it till now. Hopefully, if you rewatch the episode and then read this, it still fits. Doesn't lose its emotional edge. Special thanks to melanthev for the dialogue and beta.

He'd finished the day with pain pills – five of them, actually, taken in rapid succession as the rain flickered like lashes against his office window. It would've been more, what with the number of hours he'd gone cold turkey since Tritter pulled his stash, but a last remaining shred of medical detachment informed him that doing so would be the equivalent of going all in on a high stakes poker game, and the dealer had all the aces. Or, to put it more succinctly, ritual suicide.

He had thirty-two left in the bottle, to last him another several days; no sense in hurrying that process along any more than it should be. There were enough things to worry about without Cuddy adding a drug overdose to his list of sins as well.

Parking his cane in its holder, House swung his leg slowly over the motorcycle seat and settled, helmet in hand, on the leather cushion. He paused briefly to brush a few droplets of rain off the speedometer (not so much to watch his speed as to _seem_ like he was watching his speed) before strapping his helmet on his head, his backpack to his shoulders, and revving the engine into high gear. The soothing hum of the motor sent a much-needed stream of warmth up his spine. Like a well-played blues piece, or the elegance of a final diagnosis. Riding the wind while riding the high – now there was an extreme sport he'd actually pay to see.

The slick pavement and the dull pain in his shoulder, not to mention his leg's constant throb, caused the motorcycle to swerve more than usual at the corner of the road leading out of Princeton-Plainsboro. House flicked on the high beams before continuing more slowly in the cold drizzle. Normally, he would hitch a ride with Wilson in this kind of weather, but given the present circumstances, that would be…slightly problematic. He was pretty sure Wilson hadn't yet had time to arrange for a carpool with one of the many pretty receptionists who swooned all over his feet.

Which meant right now…

The thin sweep of the headlights illuminated a lone figure on the sidewalk bench, windbreaker flapping, battered brown briefcase – House had insisted an orange backpack would look cooler at board meetings, but to no avail – sitting by one side. His eyes were fixed tiredly on some point in the far distance, but House knew Wilson had spotted him; had spotted him looking, at that.

House's foot on the gas pedal flinched just a little. Subconscious or not, he didn't know—didn't _want_ to know. But either way, as if on cue, the motorcycle wheels hit a wet patch on the pavement, turning their path askew and forcing him to slide the rest of the way to a slow stop...right in front of the bus station.

For a moment, he almost cursed out loud. It was one thing to be caught looking, another to actually have _stopped_. Much harder to feign ignorance with the latter.

A momentary gaze at Wilson quickly flicked to the ground.

"You know…" he began, without really hearing the words, "there's room in the back."

The other's worn gaze refocused sparingly on his motorcycle.

"I know." Wilson didn't move.

"Might seem a little crowded, but if you hang out the briefcase, toss off the coat…there's plenty of room to stretch out," he continued, pretending not to hear.

"You can't erase everything by offering me a ride, House," Wilson snapped in frustration. "It doesn't work that way."

House tapped his foot against the pavement. "No, but it sure beats waiting for the bus."

For a moment, the lines around Wilson's eyes narrowed sharply, as he struggled to restrain his anger at the other's passive-aggressive apology. "What do you want me to say? What do you want me to do?" he asked testily. "Because I get the sense that you're trying to apologize in some way, and I don't know what to do with that."

"You could...start by accepting the ride home." House saw the sour look that last comment earned him. Might as well dive right in, then. "This thing with Tritter, it's all strong arm tactics with no wind behind them. The guy's bluffing. He takes my pills, your practice – he's out to get both of us just because of one stupid, screwed up thermometer."

"He's not _bluffing_," Wilson retorted, ignoring the other's attempt to shove them both in the same boat. He'd seen House use that tactic for wheedling far too often. "It's not bluffing when you can actually pull it off. And you know what? This isn't even about the cop. It's about me putting _my_ career on the line for you, and you not even willing to lend a _single_ finger to help me out when I needed you."

"Oh, that's bull," House replied with a tone of annoyance. He was fast running out of patience with this sob story. "Your career's not in danger. The DEA's got nothing on you; they aren't going to pull your privileges indefinitely for some petty investigation." He waved his hand in exasperation. "You want Cameron? Fine. Take her. She's probably better off with your puppy dog, cancer kiddies anyway."

"Stop it! Stop making light of this!" Wilson yelled, livid. Brown eyes flared in anger as he got up from the bench, hands clenched tightly into fists. "I've lost my car. My funds are frozen. I can't help my patients. And I'm not even the one being charged here!" He stopped, swallowing hard, and forced his voice a few notches down. "Maybe it's not indefinite, but it's not going away tomorrow, either."

"Right. It'll go away the moment I turn myself in to a trumped-up traffic cop from Stalinist Russia."

"It'll go away when you stop being an ass and finally _do_ something instead of pretending this is all some sort of game." Wilson rubbed a hand across his rain-drenched face. "Talk to your lawyer. This isn't Vogler. You don't face getting fired, you face losing your license! You face prison time!"

"They're not going to prosecute this – "

Wilson threw his hands up in utter frustration. "Of course not! Tritter's just going to roll right over and give up. He seems the complete type to do that."

"He will," House snapped back, "if you don't do it first."

That gave them both a moment's pause.

"So...what, I'm supposed to put up with all this – this _bullshit_," Wilson fairly spat the word out, "while you completely ignore me when I ask you for something I _need_, and just…just _wait it out_?!" Incredulity twisted into genuine anger at the last phrase.

"Yeah! Yeah, that's exactly what I'm saying!" House slammed his cane hard against the motorcycle's side. "You think this is bad, try diagnosing a lethal disease when the only person who has your pain medication won't believe you've got a pain problem!" He stopped, breath coming harshly, as his yells echoed like lightning across the empty parking lot. Wilson held his gaze for what seemed like an eternity. "All Tritter's got…is a bunch of pills, a badly signed prescription, and a penchant for torturing cripples. Without a confession, he has no way to go to court."

Sharp bitterness tinted Wilson's laugh. "You think he won't get a confession? If he can't go through me, he'll go through someone else. Your staff betrayed you once, or did you forget what happened with Chase?"

House shook his head, though a split second's uncertainty did cross his face. "Chase doesn't have enough to convict me. Neither does Cameron. And Foreman hates cops, he's not going to bend." Shrugging it off, he set his cane back once more in its holder on his bike. "None of them have worked here more than two years. Their word would be useless against yours on the stand."

"Right," Wilson remarked dryly. "Testing my loyalty to you again. How far are you going to push it, House? Am I going to have to lie on the stand for you, too? Place blame on myself to get you off the hook?" He paused, eyes narrowing, as he studied his friend through the rain-swept haze. "Is that…what you want me to do?" It wasn't a rhetorical question. And it made it that much worse.

The other looked down in silence, lips pressed tightly together.

"...You always surprise me, House," Wilson said quietly.

Several minutes passed before those empty words were dashed by the bus's silent arrival, silent outline, silent shadow melting into the dim, wooded streets. House watched wordlessly as his friend disappeared behind dirt-smudged glass, blending easily into the many bodies aboard.

It wasn't until the fog swirled away the last outlines of the bus that he realized he'd been searching out Wilson in the crowd the entire time.


End file.
